Flying Low
The Base of Drakesreach Bluff ---- :A predominantly flat region of elevated land atop a small cliff that roughly spans one thirteenth of the Drakesreach Sierra as a whole, Drakesreach Bluff is at once both an impressive sight and an equally notable landmark within the Wildlands as a whole. It is upon this bluff that the freehold of Crown's Refuge was first established in 625 ATA, and it is upon this very same bluff that that same city has flourished. :Though mostly surrounded by dry auburn grasslands to the north and east, and the rushing waters of the Jadesnake to the west, the southern reaches of the base of Drakesreach Bluff hold some notable features, first and foremost of which is the smooth ramp that ascends towards the top of the bluff itself, leading to the only point around the base of the entire landmark by which one can enter the city above. :That city is, of course, the freehold of Crown's Refuge. Viewable as nothing more than a palisade wall of stone that measures roughly ten foot in height atop the natural aegis of wall that is the cliff face, the suggestion of a multitude of buildings and homes are never the less there all the same. A magnificent and elegant tower of pale white stone and marble ascends above the height of the wall, however, presiding over the surrounding landscape as it spears towards the heavens. :A set of vast wooden gates rest atop the natural ramp that leads up to the surface of the bluff, evidently the only ingress to and from the city above, while the thick reaches of the Verdigris Forest stretch endlessly towards the south, the edge of the forest directly adjacent to the southern edge of the bluff itself. ---- Grass wilts beneath a sober sky, starry eyes glittering with the tears of heavens above. Crouched in the center of nature's beautiful death, a phantom of white amidst a patch of brittle brown and gray, far from the ears of the Bulwark gates, Tshepsi remains as she has for three day's time. Whispering. Crooning. Clutched in her hands is a conspicuous pouch but cast away is her clothing. Scanty though they may already be, they were only items of human value at any rate, set upon her by entities of little concern during this time. A shudder rocks the surrounding air, invisible breath sweeps the dying ground, and in its wake the final leaves drop, last roots wither. The sacrifice was ended. Lifting her head, Tshepsi blows a frosted sigh to the violet and green moons above. "Ssshe waitssss..." Taran - generally overcome, as he often is, by curiosity - pokes his head out of the gates. Seeing the expectant posture, he opts to stay right up against the gates for now. Just in case somebody heard whatever that was besides some plants. Sandrim, on the other hand, doesn't really seem aware that anything is going on at all as he steps out the gates. He pauses a moment as he notices Taran, tilting his head at the man curiously. "Something going on?" he asks. "The problem with deeptongue is that it echoes across the Shadow as if resounding from the loudest of bells; a clear ring that draws the attention of every dark construct who is close enough to the source to feel it." The voice that states these words - a clear and regal tone with a distinctively fluid purr to it - hails from a graceful man clad in a very distinctive set of midnight-blue leathers and iron. His hair shines as if spun of silver, and his eyes harbor an intensely ethereal presence to them; the azure illuminated with an inner fire of cold flame. "If you're looking for dragons, Tshepsi," he continues, moving upon near silent footsteps, "You should be thankful that the Light was fortunate to deliver one to you before the Shadow could intervene." The Syladri's gaze remains fixated on the darkness above with feline intensity. "No wingsss, honored child of the sssky?" Tshepsi purrs in turn and at last her chin dips forward, snowy mane (meticulously combed for the anticipated company) sweeps over, and she bends deeply into a bow. Her coils prostrate themselves, flattening as a snake flattens its body. She lifts a trembling finger to her lips. "I wasss ssscared to do it, but Tassshep knew it wasss the way. You mussst be called to Tssshepsssi. Ssshe isss humbled but not sssorry." Taran steps away from the wall now that the grass has stopped withering, looking honestly delighted but not coming too close. Rather, he walks over to Sandrim to put a hand on the other's shoulder. "It is Serath," he says softly. "But to see her, not us. Best to let them talk. Just watch." Sandrim blinks, then turns, apparently just now noticing the unclothed Archmage and the approaching silver-haired man. "Serath?" he asks quietly, then nods, just standing next to Taran for the moment, watching. The enigmatic stranger can only smile at Tshepsi's commentary, shaking his head in answer to her initial question, and apparently opting not to chide her further for the unapologetic elaboration that followed it. "The honored child of the sky has long since evolved beyond the requirement of her wings to fly, Tshepsi," he laments in a tone that suggests an almost empathic regret. At that, he casts a glance over his shoulder, looks upon something that does not appear to be there, and then glances back at the exotic Syladris woman once more. "Regardless, the Dawnbringer heard your call, and, well," he smiles softly, "Here we are." "Ssshe..." Thspesi hisses reverently and dares to raise her crimson eyes to meet those orbs of ice. Moisture seeps between those translucent lashes and her willowy fingers knot nervously around the pouch she hugs so dearly to her breast. "I have ssseen thossse eyesss before. Ssso sssoft were the wordsss ssspoken in my firssst sssleep. Tssshepsi isss happy to hear them again, for every night ssshe hasss watched the ssskies." With a lisssp, the Syladris trails off, tilting her head to examine the avatar before her more closely. The moisture in her eyes precipitates into tentative tears. Taran nods, bending slightly to whisper, "Prince of Fastheld, in case you are not registering the name properly," near Sandrim's ear. "The white dragon seems to be in there somewhere; I have seen the wings, heard the voice." But he winces as he sees Tshepsi cry; whether of joy or pain, it seems he's not the sort to handle women crying well. Taran nods, bending slightly to whisper, "Prince of Fastheld, in case you are not registering the name properly," near Sandrim's ear. "The white dragon seems to be in there somewhere; I have seen the wings, heard the voice." But he winces as he sees Tshepsi cry; whether of joy or pain, it seems he's not the sort to handle women crying well. Sandrim looks up to Taran, giving him a nod before turning back to the two. "I know," he says quietly. The Sovereign Prince allows a patient sigh at Tshepsi's antics and subsequent curiosity; though one might get the impression that the sigh is not entirely of his own doing. His expression and stance are both those akin to that of a lenient parent quietly enduring and understanding their child's officiousness. However, Tshepsi is no mere child, and Serath is most certainly not her parental guardian. There is a deeper connection at work, it seems, that is not all that forthcoming. "The Syladris owe the Drakari'ri no respect, Tshepsi, and nor do the Drakar'ri demand it," Serath finally offer, reaching to his forehead to a moment to turn aside a stray strand of argent hair before folding his arms against his chest as he regards the Archmage he has only just met with a familiarity of an old friend. "I also suspect the reason for your persistent vigil was not for the opportunity for an evening of admiration. Words shall be exchanged and advice both requested and granted. Am I correct?" "Yesss..." Tshepsi flicks her forked tongue across her lips and beyond, swiping the tear into oblivion. "Tssshepsssi hasss many quessstions. Sssome ssselfisssh...but sssome for the sssake of thossse ssshe protectsss. I ssshould asssk thossse firssst." The latter remark is said with a heavy note of reluctance and she rubs irritably at one of her regrown horns. "The reassson for my vigil I know you have sssensssed. It isss a fine tale, woven by websss ssso green. A rebirth of deadly proportionsss. The traitorousss children of sssky made of ssstone! And a fire man...hisss dance wasss captivating, but he isss /very/ mean." Wrinkling her lips into a snarl, Tshepsi gathers her coils close and creeps sideways across the dead earth towards a pile of stones. "Sssit with me." Taran - for his part - stays quite put. Watching, yes, listening, yes. Avidly *curious* yes. But the only movement is the slight breeze in the plume of his hat. The other half the peanut gallery leans a bit to one side, watching the pair with avid curiosity. "Think..." he looks to Taran, then shakes his head, letting the sentence die on the first word. "No," Serath objects as Tshepsi attempts to choose the location of their discussion. "Not here," he explains a moment later, his tone much softer. He turns at that, folding his arms behind his back as he moves to face towards the east. "What we have to speak of is not meant to be heard by..." He trails off, looks back to the side at Tshepsi, and then offering her an exceptionally *knowing* smile. "Casual eavesdroppers, shall we say?" "Follow the tail," he then whispers in a depthless and somewhat feminine voice that is most certainly not his own, and heads off in the shadow of Drakesreach Bluff towards the banks of the Jadesnake River. If Tshepsi's stark nudity has any effect on him, he doesn't show. Tshepsi nods, diverting away from her favored perch with squared shoulders. It was to be her first venture into the unknown since she arrived to the Refuge. A single backward glance is offered to Taran and Sandrim, a nod of reassurance, then she lurches forward with fluid grace, slithering after the 'tail'. Taran sighs softly, shaking his head as the faint smile fades. "I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me." He turns, then, heading back into the Bulwark. Sandrim nods, and gives Tshepsi a wave before he turns to follow Taran back inside. Stormtail Anchorage ---- :An inlet along eastern coast the northern stretch of the Jadesnake River, the Stormtails essentially consist of a low-rising formation of rocks that have, over the years, been naturally carved out in such a way as to create an agrarian harbor, free from the south to north flow of the greater river beside it. :Large enough to moor more than a few vessels in, it is at once both an ideal fishing ground and source of water for the nearby freehold of Crown's Refuge, nestled as it is upon the rise known as Drakesreach Bluff towards the east. The eastern edge of the Stormtails has evidently been coverted into a fully fledged anchorage, complete with wharfs, piers, and support buildings. :Barrels containing chum and bait stand side-by-side with carefully stacked crates of items evidently harvested from the Jadesnake, or essentially for maintaining the small fishing fleet that seems to call the anchorage home. All in all, it seems that a small fishing village has blossomed here. :Shimmering rocks of various tones of cobalt and dove dapple the sandy shores of the inlet, surrounded as they are by lush verdant grasses and the remnants of trees that have had the misfortune of growing too close to the rocky earth, backed by others that - as fate has decided - managed to find root in the more fertile soils behind them. In all, it is an idyllic location to be - perfect for wasting a sunny afternoon or a clear evening in. ---- Passing as but a whisper among the few fishermen and dockhands that know his name but not his face, Serath glides around crates and barrel alike to lead Tshepsi to the edge of one of the current vacant wharfs. He draws to a halt at the edge of that wooden arm that reaches across the glimmering back of the Jadesnake that slithers beneath to glance out across the reflective surface of the watery serpent. That the Serpent's Eye, violent and waning in the clear night sky, glimmers upon the opaque waters below, is a subtle touch of coincidence that cannot be ignored; one that Serath permits himself to smile at as he waits for his Syladris companion. Where there's water, the Syladris will never be far behind. While Serath passed without much fuss, the sight of a bare-breasted, half snake, half woman creature on the other hand is due cause to choke a bit of bread in the first dockhand's throat. Graciously, Tshepsi is drawn to the water and without so much as a splish and whipping of ivory scales, disappears from mortal view. The Ingress of Sorentir was going for a swim, it seems. The penetrating darkness of night that passes between pilings is no match for the Syladris sense, especially those who cheat with Shadow's grace. In reasonable time, a glint of scales resurfaces, looping through the reflection of the moon before being replaced by a mat of weed-ridden hair and grinning Syladris innocence. "I like thisss place much more," She confirms with an upward stare to her ethereal guide and with a bit of splashing and grappling, joins him inch by inch on the platform. "The fisssh won't ssshare our sssecrets. I asssked them." "And what of the rocks, Lady Tshepsi?" Serath asks as he lowers himself to sit upon the wharf's edge so to better look upon the swimming Syladris as she slips and glides through the glistening waters of a river basking in starlight and umbral grace. It is a question spoken in a strange and lilting voice; one that harbors a deep wisdom and undercurrents of power within the fluid docks of its tone. One as depthless as the voids of oblivion and as timeless as history itself. Sara'tharalax speaks. "And of the timber that claws into the liquid flesh of the jade snake? Or of the moons themselves, and the host of stars that glitter in their penumbral court? You have the silence of the fish, but not of Nature herself." "However," Serath interjects, his more conventional purr marked by knowing amusement, "There are very few in Crown's Refuge who can speak to the moons, Tshepsi, so I think we're safe." "Treesss cannot help but to whisssper when the wind sssweeps through them," Tshepsi sighs knowingly and draws the rest of herself onto the dock. Remembering what it was she carried, she looks with a mild case of horror to the pouch and shakes it gingerly in attempt to fling the water free. "I know he sssearches for me. He failed to find me the firssst time. But I do not want him to come again. He made a messss of thingsss." Sparing Sara'tharalax a secretive glance every now and again, she continues to twist and jiggle the pouch with earnest heart. Pesky hand of doom, interfering with her swim. It deserved to be wet. "Even if you avoid the fangs of the flying dragon, the gusting winds will strip away all freedom of movement, and the claws will render you asunder." This quote comes from Serath, rather than that which follows him from beyond the natural world. Once spoken, he looks to the heavens, and then right back upon the scintillating form of the slippery Syladris. "The question is, what would you ask of me that would allow you to evade both the fangs and the claws of the proverbial dragon that you fear, Child of the Drakar'ri?" "I have a name and now a face..." Tshepsi murmurs, forsaking the idea of restoring the artifact to its original state. She cradles it once more and sidles closer to the voice of Light. For where light goes, shadow must follow. "But no knowledge of the inbetween. Who isss Eliare, in thisss age, and what isss the truth behind Sorrrrentir?" She purrs, fingering the soggy pouch and peering inquisitively into the sheen of that tantalizing armor. "Sorentir?" The Prince repeats, tilting his head to the side a little as he considers Tshepsi's words before finally shifting a little to hold a gloved hand towards her. His right hand, to be precise, causing the articulated iron plates that flow down the arm that flows behind it to somberly refract the pale moonlight that falls upon them, illuminating them with delicate interplays of natural chiaroscuro. "Let me see." "The handsss of man brought her to me," Tshepsi muses softly, turning an eye downward to consider the item in her grasp. "And the handsss of darknesss would take her away. The Refuge, my life, isss to be bartered with thisss trinket of flesssh." Her own gaze glows with a sort of hunger as she toys with the pouch's cord. Shakily, delicate ribs expand beneath the play of amber runes on milky skin. "Tssshepsi needsss to know what it isss. Tassshep doesss not want to kill again, but ssshe will if ssshe mussst." her voice shifts slightly, taking on an eerie lilt whilst her lips curl into a sickened smile. "If they come for me, /I/ will." As for handing the object over, she still hesitates, watching the hand that extends towards her with caution. The glare of scarlet stares back at her from the metallic sheen, forcing her to cower back a curve of coil. Seraphite winks faintly as sickle-shaped nails flex over the pouch worriedly. "No, Tassshep," Tshepsi mutters inwardly and very slowly extends her arms towards the hand that would take it from her. Her hands retain their loosening grip for now. "You can sssee, I sssuppose. It isss very ugly, but I imagine that in life, ssshe wasss beautiful. Why elssse would nature have pressserved her for ssso long?" Serath, it seems, makes no attempt to take the item, although he keeps his hand outstretched to recieve it if Tshepsi decides to part with it all the same. However, given the flash of recognition that darts across his visage, it seems unlikely that he needs to hold it at all; after all, there aren't many old and withered hands to choose from. "The Hand of Sorenn," he darkly states. "You know, for a dismembered hand, you really seem to get around." "Sssinger told the noble I would eat him if he did not comply," Tshepsi explains quietly. "He came very quickly to my Ssspire then, but he and hisss fat friend were mean. I would not /really/ eat them, but I would not ssstop the acaritsss from doing ssso." A childish smirk of satisfaction crosses her pale lips at this thought. "Sssorenn? Sssorenn, then, and I went to sssleep but firssst I had to watch the horizonsss for awhile." Caught along the tangent, she flows with it, turning the pouch over casually in her palms while continuing to watch the inviting palm. "I alwaysss watch, in cassse he wissshes to come back. Sssoravyn didn't sssay when he would, but we wait all the sssame." It is with the fluidity of changing tides that emotions ripple over her Syladri visage. When one moment there was smug delight there now falls sorrow in glistening form. "But sssuch thingsss aren't important now. Not to Eliare, not to the Acarit King, and not to thossse who ssseek guidance." And so, with a hapless shrug, she delicately places the ingress into that gloved palm. As soon as the somewhat macabre artifact is placed upon that waiting hand, Serath does the unthinkable: he tosses it back into the air to catch it with his other hand, and then tosses it back in the air once more to catch it with the original hand that launched it. He does this once or twice again, as if to gauge the weight or balance or the item in question, before casually placing it at his side, next to his left hip, resting the cadaverous trinket upon the dock by his side. If there's one way to show contempt for an evil item of circumstantially immense power, it's to treat it like an utterly trivial thing indeed. A sly smile of satisfaction, not unlike Tshepsi's own childish smirk, plays upon his chiseled features. All the while, this eyes of ethereal azure continue to shine, even though his form and figure have long since been softened by the blanked of darkness that now smothers the land around the two unusual companions. "Sorenn Kahar, to whom this hand is said to have once belonged, was reportedly an agent of the Light much like Kousra Dawnstar... or Soravyn, shall we say, as you actually know who he is." He smiles dispite himself, and then continues, "So powerful was she, it is claimed, that she could remove the Shadow's touch from a person just placing her hand upon her. In truth, while Sorenn Kahar was indeed Sunkissed, her connection to the Light has been somewhat embellished for the purposes of decorating tall tales and legendary exploits. About the only thing that the mythical Sorenn Kahar and the real Sorenn Kahar have in common are their names. The rest is pure bardic fantasy." "As for this hand," he continues, "It might have belonged to her. Then again, it might not. It is, however, very little more than just an old and withered hand that should have been given to the Light many, many, centuries ago. The rumors of the power it's supposed to contain hold about as much truth to them as those relating to its proposed original owner, and are just as varied." "This "Elaire"," Serath's dragon adds, "seeks the hand because he desires that which all creatures who have power want: more power." "Yesss...I know he ssseeks to reign again," Tssshepsi nods while slithering to the edge of the dock, land side. Her torso remains steady in height while her tail oozes forth beneath her and over, reaching, reaching, until it's "belly" rests on solid ground. The latter length of tail follows and, very lastly, the reared portion lowers her human half back to a suitable height. "I do not wisssh to give Eliare the hand, regardlesss of itsss potency. Thisss will bring war. Again. Eventually I will meet the resssurrected beassst, there isss no doubt in that. It isss how to sssend him back to hisss sssleep of death that remainsss the quessstion. When wounded, he turnsss to blood and isss vanissshed. That isss what the people sssay." Her tail's tip meanders through the shady conglomerate of rubble and grass to dapple in the Jadesnake. "Tssshepsi doesss not wisssh for more bloodssshed. Ssso Tassshep called with hopesss that you may come. Sshe doesss not know what to do and her people are afraid. Sshe isss afraid." Quivering, the archmage retracts her tail to tightly wind around herself, sheltering her from cold unseen. "I am afraid," She whispers, hugging her midsection protectively and retreating to the comfort of grass below. "The balance of Light and Ssshadow hasss gone from the Ssspire, now. The whissspers of ssshadows grow louder in the wallsss. And ssso I have whissspered back, to call you, the children of the sssky. You, asss old asss thisss land'sss hissstory have many memories. Many memoriesss of time, of Eliare, of ssself. I have none." "In truth, Sara's knowledge of Elaire is somewhat limited," Serath softly explains, tapping the withered hand lightly against the timber of the wharf beneath him for lack of anything else to tap right now. "She wasn't part of that particular legacy for lack of being in the area it took place in at the time, so most of what we *do* know is second hand information. However, for such events to go unnoticed, one must assume that they weren't all that interesting to begin with." "As for Elaire's apparent power and that of the hand he covets, well... the first can be thwarted by the Light. It sounds like Necromancy, which is a delightfully unpleasant aspect of the Shadow that few have encountered." He grants Tshepsi a deeply questioning glance after that comments, but then - just as quickly - merely offers a disarming smile in following, and continues. "As for this troublesome little hand, I would suggest burning it and consigning it to ash and memory. One cannot pursue that which does not exist, after all. Failing that, I would offer to remove it from your concern myself... and perhaps we shall then see if this Elaire desires it enough to tangle with a Drakar'ri of the Black Dragonflight in her own lair." This offering of wicked mischief at Eliare's expense raises a hairless brow of intrigue from Tshepsi. Then another. Curiosity turns to hope and she inches a bit closer to the shiny man with 'Her' voice. "You would do thisss favor for your Tssshepsi?" Dragon, avatar, man, or not, the figure before her is no exception to her inability to gauge one's personal space and so she glides closer to brush against the pretty armor, admiring the way that its moonlit sheen defies the dark. "Becaussse I would let you take it. It will make Eliare angry...but without the Ingresss he sssimply isss what he isss. If I fall by hisss hand, I may ressst knowing that Sssoren hidesss in ssstronger clawsss than mine." "Where I would take this," Serath elaborates, apparently allowing Tshepsi to extend her curiosity to the leather longcoat he wears without concern, "the Shadow has no power. If the artifact itself has any spark of *anything* - and we're entirely sure that it does not - it will be devoured by the brilliance of the Light, untraceable by all who do not already know where it is hidden." Tshepsi smooths her talons through her mane. "I trussst you will dissspose of thisss hand asss you sssee fit, far from Eliare's touch. With one lessss worry, I may turn my attentionsss elsssewhere." Tshepsi bows her head for a second time, ignoring the former dismissal of such reverence. "You have the gratitude of the Refuge and of myssself. The Archon wasss worried about sssummoning your presssence, but I had faith that you would underssstand our predicament. We who pray to Her and to the Light are bound to experience a resssponssse. I sssimply am fortunate to find mine ssso sssoon." ---- ''Return to Season 7 (2008) Category:Logs